Never Cry
by zorro x
Summary: Harry's been captured by Voldemort, and tortured- was he rescued in time to save his sanity? It's hard to tell, when Harry's hearing screams from people who aren't there and feeling phantom pains...Complete!
1. Never Cry

A/N: Simply a bit of Harry torture... I kept Sirius alive simply because I read too much fanfic and forgot he was dead when I wrote this... Oops. Just pretend it was set after GoF. Please review!!!!!!! It really doesn't take long!   
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. But you know that, right?   
  
  
  
Strong. Silent. Brave. Whatever I do, whatever I see, I never cry. A rare occasion indeed when tears leak past my shuttered eyes- I never let myself howl and rage. I'm strong- I must be. Strength is measured in many ways, and I always come out on top. Physically, I'm horribly, beautifully, strong. Magically, I pose a threat to the Dark Lord himself. Mentally, I;m right behind Hermione. And emotionally, well, I told you I never cried, didn't I?  
  
I hate this. Hate, hate, hate it. Because its impossible to remain dignified well writhing and screaming. Impossible to be strong when pure pain rips away all barriers. I'll keep at it, of course. Keep pretending to still have something to cling to, even if it is my own fool pride and stubbornness. So I'll keep up my charade, banter insults between screams. And hope- and hope-  
  
They will come for me, of course. Its a given. Not out of love, but because they're scared and they need me. And I know they will come for me because Snape was here, and he'll tell Dumbledore. I hope he doesn't mention how I flinched and moaned, whimpering like a bloody animal with his leg caught in a trap. And I'll never listen to that voice whispering in the back of my mind that maybe they won't, maybe they'll leave me to die here, spread naked on a damp floor, screaming. Some hero I am now.   
  
Pain again. It comes and goes- comes, mostly. The worst part about that damned curse is that even once its over you're still twitching and gasping. I'm still twitching and gasping. He's talking again- does he ever stop? If I could get the ringing in my ears to stop, I would listen and come up with a sarcastically clever remark. As it is, I rasp out the words that will damn me- useless save for the stubbornness that keeps me hanging on.   
  
Fuck you. The words were hoarse and almost unintelligible- I felt instantly ashamed to have them croaked from my mouth. Ashamed, and again in pain, my throat harsh and raw from too many screams. Too many goddamn screams. And again- the words of the spell beyond my comprehension. I know the speech he'll be giving, of course. About how strong he is, how weak I am. Death to the mudbloods- never mind that genocide means the end of him, as well. Voldemort's dirty little secret. Have you screamed, Riddle? Do you cry?  
  
We are a lot alike, in some ways- life dealt us both bitter hands, and where abuse and lack of affection drove him insane, it merely drives me forward. Perhaps there is a sort of insanity in the way I always must talk back. And never cry... Dirty, worthless, good-for-nothing freak... I am not! I'm hearing things, now. I could have sworn Uncle Vernon was here, bending over me, fists clenched, face purple with rage. Hurling insults and emanating hatred. Am I going to go insane? End up like Neville's parents in an obscure ward of St. Mungos?   
  
If I did go mad, and spent year after year locked in a padded room, would that be so bad? There would be no pain, certainly. Nice nurses to change me, bathe me, feed me, to talk as if to a small child and smile sadly. I'd never have to worry about what other people thought. There would be no Voldemort, no Death Eaters, no exacting demands to live up to. Nothing but a small room, rather like my cupboard.   
  
I think I am in my cupboard now. It's very, very, dark, and if I keep quiet I can hear Aunt Petunia's snores. I love my cupboard- it's mine. All the Dursleys ever gave me that hadn't once belonged to Dudley. *All mine.* It's wrong, though. Someone's laughing. He's not allowed here, in this haven in my head. He's not allowed. I curl up into a ball and plug my ears. It's just me, now. All alone in my cupboard. All alone, save for laughter and distant screams.   
  
I wonder who will come and see me when I'm gone. Hermione and Ron, attempting to hold a conversation with a crazy person- her crying into his shoulder while he puts on that brave face that only I could ever see through. Sirius, ranting and raving and finally sobbing into my hair while I stare blankly into the air behind him. Dumbledore, apologizing. My house mates, begging me for a safe return. But there is now where safer than here, locked tight in my cupboard.   
  
Once the screaming stops, I will come out. Once that raspy, agonized wail stops vibrating through my mind, reverberating and echoing, getting louder even as it dies. The sound of my screams alone could bring me over the sharp edge of sanity. If I'm not there already. But I refuse to accept that- I'm far too proud to let myself be hidden away, safe thought it may be. Once the ringing stops I'll come out, if I have to break down the door to do it.   
  
Silence. Blessed silence. I'm through screaming, then. Is it over? The only way to tell is to open the door, and face it. All I want to do is curl up like a little boy and cry. But I'm not a little boy, and I don't cry. And I'm far too reckless for my own damn good. Time to face the world, I suppose. I don't want to. But I don't cry.   
  
Pain. Ah, yes, the pain. I had forgotten how sharp it was. I am jerking and panting in an undignified manner, and I have the distinct impression of being carried like a woman, like a bride, face burrowed in some strangers neck. They smell of bitter soap and unpleasant potions, dank and moist like the room I just left. A Death Eater, then. Damn.   
  
I almost retreat again, but stop myself. Im not going anywhere until I am sure I can come back. As nice as my fantasy of the mental ward was, I am not quite prepared to be treated as a child for the rest of my life. So I look up- oh. It's just Snape. That's all right, then. I let my world go black- this time, it is a much broader darkness then that of my cupboard. There might have even been stars. And the tears fall unnoticed from my shuttered eyes.   



	2. Phantom Pain

A/N: Yes, I know that this is short and pointless. I'm trying to capture Harry's mindset during and after severe torture... Needless to say, he's not all there. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, but I may add the viewpoints of other charecters later. Please review!   
  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his friends, sadly, are not mine. If they were, this wouldn't be fanfic, simply authorfic, which doesn't wuite have the same ring.   
  
  
  
  
  
Ten fingers. Ten toes. I wiggle them doubtfully, pleased by the motion. All right, then. I'm whole... I open my eyes and the world is blurry, indistinguishable. But one thing that strikes in my mind is the lightness, the brilliant white of the walls, the ceiling, the bed. Dark Lords and Death Eaters never use white.   
  
My memory is coming back slowly, and I distinctly remember pain, and- my cupboard? What? And I think that Snape was there... I close my eyes, trying painfully to sort out reality. I remember the pain, and even now my body aches for it, the muscles tightening, my back arching as I suck for air that comes readily, now. My throat is burning, it feels as though somebody lit a match inside and is attempting to burn their way out of it. I whimper, unable to escape the sound.   
  
It's barely more than a a sigh, but someone is there an instant, and I flinch in expectation of pain as glasses are situated neatly on my scraped face, raw and bloody from being smashed and ground against the rough ground of His torture chamber. This time when I open my eyes, I'm greeted by the worried visage of the Hogwarts nurse, peering at me intently. I've been in this position so many times it's hard to tell if this is the past or present, reality or a hopeful dream.  
  
I consciously order my body to relax, breathing deliberately deep breaths despite the frantic pounding of my heart, focusing on one muscle, then the next, until I've gone completely limp. A rag doll, a puppet with cut strings. I couldn't move if I wanted to, can't force words from my painful throat, out my swollen and bloody lips. There's nothing to say, anyway.   
  
They didn't physically torture me, relying instead on the Cru- the Curse. I'm disgusted by the way that I can't even think the name without shuddering. But despite the purely magical methods, there are bandages and bloodstains, from the places where I hurt myself convulsing. There are scrapes on my face and arms, my nails are broken and the my fingertips bloody from where I scrabbled for purchase on rocky ground. I bit through my tongue, and my lip, and my throat is ruined from screaming. Even thought they didn't touch me, they left a mark- left in a mark in the bruises, where I fell to the floor. Left a mark in the memory of pain...   
  
Phantom pain is like a phantom finger, I realize. Even once it's gone, you still feel it. You still turn, expecting it to be where you left it, only to smacked by shock when you look down and realize that you have only nine fingers. I have all my fingers, and all of my toes, but there's no way of telling if the pain is real- no way of telling how much is memory, how much nightmare, and how much reality. I hate magic- it plays tricks on the mind, fools it into thinking somethings there that's not, and then you can never be sure....   
  
Madame Pomfrey is holding a glass up to my ruined lips, which I obligingly part, trembling slightly. I have no false ideas that I could somehow hold the glass myself- I have no motor control whatsoever, and all my limbs are trembling. I wonder briefly how I managed to wiggle my fingers, and am struck by a brief, blinding, panic. Phantom digits... Suppressing a scream, I jerk my head forward awkwardly, knocking the glass out of Madame Pomfreys hands. The sight of my bloody hands, tightly bandaged but still whole, is reassuring.   
  
I relax backwards with a quiet sigh of relief. I'm still in one piece. Still holding together. My glasses were knocked off by the force of the gesture, and Madame Pomfrey placed them gently on my face once more. She didn't look angry, to my relief, merely exasperated. Mr. Potter, if you stay still this goes much faster, She told me. I am perfectly capable of feeding you myself. She didn't understand, didn't know that I might have been a ghost and wouldn't even have known...   
  
She pulls out her wand to clean up the mess I made, and we are both equally surprised by my reaction. It's not a conscious decision, not a choice. I pulled backwards forcefully, images running through my mind, flashes of that damning pain- it hurt, and I hated it, and I thought I might be crying but felt no tears.... I saw Voldemort, and the Death Eaters, and the torture chamber. I heard screaming from the past, or the future, or possibly the present, but it was impossible to tell which was which, anymore....   
  
The sound of screaming is rising, growing, multiplying. It's breeding like a colony of rabbits, until I can't hear anything but screaming, can't see anything but red eyes and a little stick of wood. My Uncle's voice is in there somewhere, damning me as worthless, my cousin is tormenting me, I'm five again and someone's holding my arms behind my back as he punches me over and over again. My Aunt's wail of disgust mingles with the laughter of the Dark Lords, the screams of my mother, and my own wailing grief...   
  
In the end, she puts the wand away and uses a simple towel, murmuring soothing words and sending me worried looks. I keep my eyes shut tightly. Trembling, scarred hands are clenched tightly against the phantom pain... Ten fingers. Ten toes. I'm whole.... 


	3. Human Sacrifice

A/N: Here it is! My third chapter! More pointless Harry angst, but this time there's Dumbledore, too. Review! I can never have too many reviews!! By the way, I don't own any of it. Too bad, too...   
  
  
  
Dumbledore comes to see me, on what is possible my second day at Hogwarts. My second day, or my second hour- time runs together, while reality entwines with illusion, past with present, death with life. He, thankfully, looks the same as he always has- same hair, same face, same dancing blue eyes over those those stupid half-moon glasses. The only difference I can spot is that he looks a bit older- have I spent _years _in this stupid room? Or maybe years with Him...   
  
He doesn't say anything, just stands in front of my perfectly sanitary hospital bed and smiles. I try to smile back, but suspect it comes out more like the pained grimace of a caged, feral, animal. I am uncomfortably aware of my bandages, my wounds. He doesn't move, just smiles, and I wonder if he's ever going to speak, or if he is merely a statue, a pained imagination, or a half-forgotten memory.   
  
I'm sorry, I rasp out, not meeting that striking gaze. And I am- sorry for getting caught, sorry for laying here, broken and wrecked. Sorry for not being what he needs me to be. Sorry for too many things to count, and I as stare at the wall, I'm hit by the swirling memories. How many times have I been in this position? A sacrifice to the Greatest wizard alive- save perhaps Voldemort. And the second would use me far more cruelly.   
  
You've nothing to be sorry for. That's it, then. He doesn't accept it. He doesn't even understand. I'm still trembling, bloody fingers grasping the blanket until I'm sure I've popped open my scabs, fingers still shaking and jerking in the memory of pain. Indeed, it is I who should apologize. We should have gotten there sooner. Damn right, you should have! I want to scream. But logically, I know that I could have been there for days and never noticed. It doesn't matter how long they took.   
  
You got there, and I'm thankful. And there, I've absolved him, and doesn't he look the better for it? His eyes are a little brighter, a little livelier, his smile a bit happier. The lines in his cheeks are visibly diminished, and for a second I'm not sure if he's real or imagined.   
  
Well, my boy, I'm still sorry, He tells me. And I wonder at that- his boy. If I'm his, that what is he? My Lord and Master, a kinder and less painful master than the shade of Tom Riddle, perhaps, but with the same expectation for deference. I'm his boy, his sacrifice, his savior. And he wants so much- too much- and even though he loves me, which I'm pretty sure he does, there's only so much he has the right to ask for. And no amount of apologies will ever absolve him of his sins, but if he saves us it won't matter.   
  
And at the simple words of apology, a thousand little memories come flooding down across me. The hasty excuses of jostling students in the hallways, Trelawney's breathy moans of distress. The loud, passionate, Oh, Harry, I'm _sorry!_ That Hermione gave me more times than I could count. I see Ron's bashful face, freckled and wide-eyed, hear his sincere, Sorry, Mate, For a thousand small crimes. The remembrance of too many pasts, and I lose myself for a moment, or longer, but pull out far sooner that I ought to have. There weren't nearly enough apologies to right the wrongs that have been slammed at me.   
  
I don't know how long that took me, but when I return to the present- I assume it's the present- Dumbledore is sitting in a comfortable chair beside me. Much as I loathe him, I love him even more, and the companionship is welcome. I apology reflexively, and he just smiles.   
  
Quite all right. You appeared to go somewhere else for a moment, so I thought I'd better wait around. I'm blushing- I can feel the blood rushing to my bandaged and ruined face, and I bare my teeth at the Headmaster in a rough semblance of good cheer. We've all been very worried. I don't bother to ask who he means, because I know that the whole world will have been anxious, for a million different reasons. My friends because they care- or I like to think they do. The Order because I'm their weapon, and they need me. The ordinary people because I'm the Hero, the Golden Boy. And the Death Eaters because when I die, it's going to be short, sweet, and public, designed to bring glory to their master.   
  
I'm sorry, I say again, and he doesn't bother to correct me. How long- How long since I woke, how long was I asleep? How long since the capture? How long have you been waiting? How long did He have me? I want to ask all these and more, but my throat closes and I choke slightly. He hears, though. He understands this at least.   
  
You were only out for a few minutes, He says, referring to my break to the past. Other than that, you've been here for a week- and four of days you spent asleep. His eyes lock on me, and I shiver slightly in foreboding, although it's unnoticeable against my body's spasms. Voldemort had you for 3 days, Harry. That doesn't seem possible- four hours, tops. But he's not lying, and I know that I somehow lost my mind, and I wonder if I've found it yet.   
  
Not my most intelligent response, but I couldn't think what else to say. And I was hurting, though I did my best to hide it, gritting my teeth sharply and catching my inner lip between my teeth. The stinging pain was enough to hold back tears of despair and the all encompassing ache of the rest of my body. Ron and Hermione? Reflex question- I can't think what would have happened to them.   
  
Worried. They're at Headquarters for the moment, but both wish to see you. They're fine, He added, catching a question in my bespectacled eyes. I haven't been able to remove them, even in sleep, and don't dare call Madame Pomfrey. It's better to sleep in them, then try to remove them with my own uncontrollable limbs, or call for the fussy nurse.   
  
I don't say anything else, merely close my eyes against the unspoken thoughts, plots, and questions in Dumbledore's. I am in no mood to deal with it- with any of it. They placed the heaviest load on my narrow, and still-growing shoulders, and more word will break my back. I can't do it, not any of it, not like this. Not like this... Not convulsing in a hospital bed, helpless and covered in bandages, fighting back tears. Not like this....  
  
He knows this, and I am once more thankful for Albus Dumbledore's intuitive understanding. He doesn't leave, but stays at my side, removing my glasses and folding them neatly on the table beside me. I roll around so that I'm facing away from him, but his gentle breathing is audible in the silent room. He stays until I fall asleep, the painful world disappearing in a haze of pain and memory. 


	4. Ghost

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry. OR Sirius. Or Remus. Or the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. The lyrics at the bottom are from the Dave Matthews Band song Gravedigger.' I don't own them, either.  
  
A/N: Sorry I didn't get this out earlier. My muse deserted me. I spent a while looking for him, and was about to admit defeat before he came flying back at me, over the mountains. How nice of him, don't you think?   
  
*********  
I feel like I'm living in a dream. It's so hard to tell what's actually happening, and what's just a memory of a future that was never real, and will never be real... I dreamt that Hermione was in here, and Ron, both of cool and collected and barely there, but I know it wasn't real because the next time they saw me she burst into tears when I flinched away from her bone breaking embrace, and he started to yell and scream until I whimpered and hid. And then they were gone, like water through fingers I forgot to clench.   
  
I'm laying here staring at the ceiling, and I'm fairly certain I'm real because I hurt too much to be a ghost. I always thought it would be nice to be a ghost, free of any pain or responsibilities. Able to do nothing more that float past, incapable of crying, or bleeding... A specter that the rain passes through. How nice it would be, to stand in the rain and feel nothing, nothing at all. To walk on water, through fire, come out unscathed. To disappear...  
  
I'm too real. They see me. The door opens, and I hear footsteps and the click of toenails on hard floor. Cold floor, cold like silver blood that never falls. I wonder if it freezes the bare pads of a canines feet, if it sends tendrils of ice up his legs until he's rooted in place, incapable of movement, of dancing or running or fleeing. Unable to escape.   
  
The voice is soft, quiet, unfamiliar. They want me to answer, don't they? Expect some sort of brave response. I'm the hero, the golden boy. I'm not a ghost, not yet...  
  
My voice is hoarse and painful, and I'm afraid of the winces it may provoke. I wonder when I started to mean enough to hurt people, and try to decide if I like the power. I figure out I hate it.   
  
Oh, Merlin, Harry... The second voice is different. I know that voice, know that man, but only distantly, a stranger that means the world to me. The idea of family so much more enjoyable than the practice.   
  
I'm okay, I reassure him, twisting on my side to face him. I want to get out of the hospital, to return to life as normal. To be me again, to be strong, to be a hero... I don't feel heroic. I hope that it comes back to me when I'm so involved in the small troubles of the present I lose sight of the pain in the past.   
  
I'm sorry. Another apology. I am so tempted to let someone else take the blame, be strong, and I open my mouth to rant, and rave, and throw things-  
  
It's not your fault. And it wasn't, and I'm too much the good boy to lie. His eyes thank me- clear and blue and somehow haunted. I can't seem to look away from his eyes. They capture me.   
  
Nor is it yours, The second voice breaks the growing tunnel between his eyes and mine, and I gladly turn towards the distraction.   
  
I know. Oh, good professor. How little you know. Haven't you accepted by now that it's always someone's fault? Today it's mine. Tomorrow, it will be someone else's. Yours, Sirius's, Dumbledores, Malfoys, Fudges... The list grows, and grows. It's always someone. I'd like to be blameless.   
  
I was so worried- all you all right? Madame Pomfrey said you'll make full recovery, but if anything hurts you tell her, all right? Is there anything I can do to help? The questions pour forth like a river from his mouth, and I tune them out carefully, letting them wash over me in a cleansing flood. How to explain phantom pain and unhealthy expectations, memories that press on you? I suspect, if he thought about it, he'd understand- does he ever feel the shadow of a dementor in the noonday sun? But he's too afraid to let himself understand. Too afraid of the truth to ever believe it.   
  
He stops talking, the flow of love and worry cut off so abruptly the pain returns with a passion, and only his grip on my arm keeps me grounded in reality. Reality. He is real, and I am real, and the pain is an illusion. I clench my teeth against a scream and wonder if his hand is going to pass through me, like rain on a ghost. But he's holding on, and I'm holding on, and we're holding together.   
  
I came as fast as I could. I'm sorry. He tells me again. I wonder what he's looking for, and if there's enough of me left to spare him what he needs. I have to resist the urge to lock my arms about my chest, refuse to lend out any more of me until I've figured out how much is insubstantial. How dead I am.   
  
It's okay. Another meaningless platitude, but he takes it at face value. Good for him. I wonder what my face shows, and how different it is from what's inside. I wonder what a hollow face can look like, and hope it isn't screaming. I'm so tired of screams.   
  
It's true. We had to stun him to keep him from exposing himself to the ministry, he was in such a hurry. I'm not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. We've all been very worried.   
  
Again, that all. It's nice to know I'm loved by All, but I don't know who All is. I wonder if he expects me to love him back. I don't think I've got enough love left. I'm all right. Another lie, to another face, but they're so eager to accept it I dismiss my guilt. It's not my fault, this time. It's All's, for taking more that I have left to give. For stealing away the part of me that keeps the rain out. It's falling through me in buckets, forming puddles beneath me and rushing away to join the sea. Everything wants to be part of something bigger, and I can't help but feel that each droplet that passes through takes a part of me with them. I love you, All.   
  
They stay for a bit, but they turn to my mum and dad at some point, so I have to stop talking. I know my parents are dead- I'm not crazy. I wonder how long the two men stay, before giving up on me, but my silvering body is drifting out of reality and into the realms of the dead, and I have no way of knowing. Nor any real desire to. I hope they found what they wanted. I hope my grave is shallow, so I can feel the rain.   
  


  
_Gravedigger,   
When you dig my grave,  
Could you make it shallow,  
So that I can feel the rain?   
Gravedigger.  
_


	5. They're Watching You

Disclaimer: Harry and Sirius and Remus and Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey and Hogwarts and Snape aren't mine. Neither is anything else you may recognize as being from Harry Potter. It's not all that hard to figure out.   
  
A/N: Sorry that this took so long to get out, and that it's so short- I've been rather uninspired, and when my Muse did deign to favor me with his presence, it was in the form of short pieces on the Marauders, or some help in my most ambitious project- a sixth year novel-length fic. I've got it planned out, but am only on the third chapter. I won't post any of it until I'm more than halfway through, so don't hold your breath.   
  
Thanks to all of my reviewers- your feedback was what mostly made me spit this chapter out. I don't normally do individual responses, but in answer to a few questions:  
  
**Iko Baby:** I came up with the idea for this story out of nowhere. It has no plan, or shape, and is mostly just spitting out what comes to my mind.   
  
**PixieDust590: **I just turned fifteen.... And long reviews are excellent!!! Glad you like it so far...   
  
  
*******  
They tell me I have to leave eventually. Madame Pomfrey, saying in her no-nonsense tones that of _course _I need to rejoin the real world- Sirius coaxing, Professor Lupin calmly stating facts in that professor's manner. Dumbledore with his goddamn eyes glittering at me- I always thought they were twinkling before, but the memory of glittering red eyes is too firmly etched in my memory, overriding the pale blue orbs.   
  
I curl up tightly and close my eyes, refusing to speak to them. I won't rejoin the world- I don't think myself capable of it. I can't even think about the eyes on me without wanting to scream. I don't, though- I'll never scream again, if I can help it. Although the annoying part of me that's become sarcastic and cynical is pointing out that I may not have much of a choice, considering my track record.   
  
It's safer in bed. Even when my bed consisted of a cot in a cupboard, I knew that it was safer in bed. Pulling my tattered blanket up around my ears to keep out the bogeyman... I wonder if I couldn't just live out the rest of my life in a bed, secluded and sheltered, away from the glittering eyes of strangers and friends alike. Eyes that judge what they have no right to, that pry and damn and pierce through my hard-earned walls. I wonder if there is a spell that could cut out the eyes of every living being, so that no one could ever twinkle or glitter with joy or malice.   
  
Harry, come on. You're not four. Sirius says, and I wonder for an instant if I couldn't be four if I tried hard enough. Sink into my childhood like a body into quicksand, losing myself to the tugging of the sand and the feel of my own impending demise. I'd die by aging backwards, drift into infancy and then back to being an embryo, until I sink away into nothing, awaiting a passionate night between two people long dead. It would be nice to be a child again, though, even if only for a day or an hour. Even as a childhood, living with the Dursleys, I believed in the overall good nature of the universe. Thought that true evil could always be vanquished, that ever story had a happily-ever-after.  
  
I refuse to respond to my godfather, rolling on my side so I'm facing the wall, and don't have to look at the pale blue eyes that beseech me to be something I don't think I could ever be again. I'm not sure if I even remember who that someone was- I only know that the expectations those eyes hold are as unattainable as the idea of grasping a star in hand. I don't want to see what I have to measure up to, nor the disappointment when I once again prove myself incapable. I am nothing but a child, and they cannot ask more... But they will. They always do.   
  
Mr. Potter, this is ridiculous! There is nothing more I can do for you here! Madame Pomfrey is scolding me. I'm so used to being scolded that I don't even flinch, imagining my Aunt's frigid, hate-filled glare, Professor Snape's calculated sneer. She cannot do worse to me than I've already lived through. I refuse to listen... I refuse to hear.  
  
Harry, look at it logically- you are going to have to face the world eventually. This way, you'll be better prepared to start lessons next term. Your roommates have already been briefed on the situation. It's the best deal you're likely to get. Oh, sweet professor. I refused to be swayed by your logic and reasoning- logically, I should be fully healed by now. Logically, I should never have been kidnapped in the first place. Logically, there is no more meaning to this thing we call life than a string of numbers in a scientific formula, and maybe a few latin phrases to imbue magic to the wizards. Logically, none of this matters at all.   
  
My eyes are shut tightly, but I still see things. My mother's eyes, and my fathers, disappointed and pained. Sirius's eyes, and Lupin's, Dumbledore's blue and Snape's black. I can see the eyes of everyone and they're all watching me, in unthinking awe or unyielding derision. I can't look at them, any of them, and I cannot face them without crying... I never cry, and I won't scream again, but one look in someone's fright-filled face and I'll collapse.   
  
I don't want to collapse. I don't want to implode. I don't want to lose everything that makes me me and end up and empty shell, crushed by the forces of the world. I feel like I'm sinking to the bottom of the ocean, and with each foot I fall more weight presses on me, until eventually I'll be crushed flat, like a beer can on a fratboy's forehead. Empty and drained, drowned and destroyed by the pressure of Dumbledore's glittering gaze.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Mr. Potter-   
  
And on and on and on, until my ears are ringing with the sound of my name and the prospect of forgetting myself is more unlikely than anything. I think for an instant of what it would be like to forget who I was, then realize that it's already happened, and I don't know who am or what I'm doing or how to get out of this goddamned bed... I realize I don't know anything about me except for the fact that I can't- I can't- I can't-  
  
They're leaving, I can hear it and feel it and I know that I'm about to be left on my own, by myself, alone with the eyes that won't look away, even for so much as a second, that won't blink or tear up or loosen their hold on me. I whimper pathetically, an animal caught in my own trap, and am ashamed at how gratefully I am when Sirius and Professor Lupin return. Sirius grabs my hand and holds on tightly, and Lupin settles at my side, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my eyes.   
  
I sigh at the feeling of another person's hand on my trmebling skin, and open my eyes reflexively. They are caught by Dumbledore's gaze from across the room, and I feel him burning a hold through my very fabric, letting the water seep in and drag me down... I'm never going to be able to breathe again, never going to be able to stare at the sun until my own eyes burn or walk across the water as easily as my heart beats. Never going to live...  
  
But Sirius's hold on my hand is buoying, and Professor Lupins soothing presence is calming the storm. I blink, releasing the headmasters hold on my eyes, and suddenly I'm swimming again, and drifting upwards slowly as I inwardly laugh in relief at my freedom.   
  
I close my eyes again, and let the grasping hands of sleep claim me. I can deal with this tomorrow, or the next day. For now, I'm a child, and I can sleep. My blanket it tucked in tight around my head, and the bogeyman is safely held at bay.  
  
  
**********  
_And here we have a poem by me that I think fits the chapter, although it wasn't written with this in mind- reviews are appreciated!!! If you like it, check out my other work at fictionpress.com- link on my profile. You are violently encouraged to do so. (Meaning, if I was there, you'd probably be held at knifepoint,) Here goes:  
  
**Animal**  
  
I curl up and refuse to speak   
Close my eyes- prepare to die.  
Burrow in the hole I dug  
The walls too high to climb.  
  
They reach a hand to lift me out  
I bite it, dig my teeth in deep.  
And left I am to cry- to die!  
I rot, but I refuse to weep.  
  
They watch me sadly from the top-   
Peer down to face the wild beast.  
So wild- I'm savage, on display  
Go away- please, I want to sleep!  
  
A gecko in a glass bottle-  
A rodent in a trap.  
A lion, held by poachers-  
A dying, poisoned, rat. _


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